Christmas, F'ing Christmas
by Generic Chimera
Summary: We were both giggling like schoolgirls when our lips met. I don’t know who actually did it. Maybe it was me, maybe it was him, maybe it was both, maybe it was an accident. I don’t know and frankly don’t care.'slash. incest. swearing. good stuff.


   Christmas, f'ing Christmas.

   365 days in a year, and only one preaches goodwill towards men. Yeah, and the other 364 get all the bombings and murders and shit. I hated Christmas. It's a little known fact about me. Little more known fact, I hate Thanksgiving as well. It's a crock. Giving thanks for our ancestors having the guts to slaughter thousands of Indians. Really a lot to give thanks for.

   You know the real reason I hate Thanksgiving and Christmas?

   My mother got her test results back on a Thanksgiving Friday two days before a family bash.

   We cancelled the party.

   Two years later she died on Christmas Eve.

   We cancelled Christmas.

   Jeff was going around on Christmas Day, looking lost. I wondered whether it was because he was missing all the presents, or whether he was actually missing Mamar. Of course, that was all of two seconds before he burst into tears and crawled into my lap. Dad didn't know what to do; so he locked himself away. Me and Jeff were left with our mother's older sister in her house. I don't remember much about Aunt Christine, only that she was nice, she gave Jeff candy canes, let us share a bed and she smelled like cocoa.

   Dad got us back a week later. Then we weren't even allowed to hug. He told us to 'move on', 'life goes on' and told us we were sissies if we let this get to us. Jeff and I couldn't even touch each other until two years afterwards when at Dad's family reunion we had to take a photo with a couple of our cousins and had to have one arm around each other.

   I never got that. Why weren't we allowed to touch?

   Oh, the old southern boy reputation of being incestuous cocksuckers.

   Well guess what, dad?

   Your sons preserve that reputation. 

   We hug, Dad. We hold hands, Dad. We kiss, Dad. Guess what Dad? We lost our virginity to one another.

   We help each other get through Thanksgiving and Christmas Day.

   Matter of fact, we're holding hands right now. Simple things are what make life worth living. Jeff's next to me, holding on to Liger's leash with his other hand. You should see him Dad, the moon's catching this tiny streak of purple in his hair and making it sparkle like his eyes…he's smiling at this tiny little toy poodle that Liger's sniffing at, and we're making small talk with it's owner, this pretty woman that looks a bit like Aunt Christine. I think she's a little tired, when she brushes hair out of her eyes the streetlight keeps showing little dark rings under her eyes.

   We move on, Liger's sniffing at a signpost. Jeff smiles and he's leaning up for a kiss. His tongue and mine dance, but I growl softly and break the kiss as I notice him trying to steal my gum. He's pouting now, and I stick my tongue out at him. The pout turns into a smile as he notices his newest conquest; my tongue ring. I growled at him again, that hurt like a motherfucker last time I let Jeff get at it.

   His smile widened slightly as he looks over my shoulder; I turn and watch as well.

   The Christmas spirit is definitely not dead, at least not in this house. Victorian style…late 1950s or a damn good imitation. Lots of research when I was planning my house lets me identify most houses pretty accurately. Lights everywhere; icicle-type with lights that flowed back and forward, strings that flashed, strings around the flower beds…Santas dancing on the roof, blow-up reindeer pulling a real sleigh…Jeff pulls my hand and I follow, looking around in amazement as we both disappear in a wonderland. Who says Christmas lights are only for little kids?

   We're almost home now. That old place with you, Dad? That's just a house with my things in it; this is my home. The Imagi-Nation. Quite possibly the weirdest place on earth. Where my heart is.

   Jeff loves this place; Cameron, the Nation. I don't think I've ever seen him so happy as when Aaron Williams phoned up and asked if RAW magazine could do a spread on his home…oh yeah I have.

   The night we pulled our heads outta our butts and realized we loved each other.

   It was a night…pretty much the same as this, maybe a little later and cloudier…lots more cloudy. We were walking…in NY City, that place is hell to do anything else in. Streetwatching, or somethin'. Anyways, Jeff tripped, and hit his head on a streetlight pole. Really embarrassing, especially when you consider that he started to bleed. A lot. We both hurried to the arena; even though we had just come from there it was the closest place. By the time we arrived at the Garden, Jeff's handkerchief was stained red, and he started feeling woozy. There was hardly anyone there, including medics, so I scavenged a couple of bandages and gauze pads. He insisted I was overreacting. That was until he saw himself with a bandage around his head like those people you see on TV that survive plane crashes. Then he told me I was grossly overreacting and if I didn't get that piece of crap off his head he would take a page from Rocky's book and shove straight up where the sun don't shine.

   Needless to say, I left him like that, told him he looked cute and defenceless. 

   And needless to say he chased me around the arena for thirty minutes, but I digress.

   We sent our bags home with Lita, who was next door sharing with Jackie. Then we started walking again, 'cause Jeff insisted he was fine. Of course, what happens? It starts to rain. We were both being stupid, staying clear on the footpath getting wet when there were overhangs off shops at least three-quarters the way back. So of course I get stuck with a ruined shirt and stuck-on denim, don't I?

   Jeff grins at me and starts teasing me about how I look like a brunette drowned rat and that starts another chase, this time into Central Park. The most public and most private place on the face of the Earth. He skidded on the wet grass and I crashed into him, making him fall flat on his ass and me drop into his lap. Jeff and I were both giggling like schoolgirls when our lips met. I don't know who actually did it. Maybe it was me, maybe it was him, maybe it was both, maybe it was an accident. I don't know and frankly don't care.

   Jeff pulled back and stared at me, I think. Not sure, because I had my eyes closed and was hyperventilating at the time.

   We both went back to the hotel in silence, hands in pockets, serious…I've never seen Jeff so serious in my life. I kept sneaking peeks at him…he's beautiful when he's thinking or upset. Of course I mentally chucked a spaz once I found out I'd actually thought that.

   Suddenly we were both sitting cross-legged on the bed in our room…only one bed, how's that for bad timing?…and staring at each other. There was this really annoying clock, I remember. Must have clicked a thousand times before one of us even tried to speak, and that ended in a choke. And just as suddenly we were making out like teenagers.

   I think you can imagine what went on then, can't you?

   And slowly we progressed…through our share of bad times…

   Jeff got really depressed last year, and he started to not care about anything. He kept getting worse and worse, until I finally realized it and we both went to therapy. We never actually told the shrink that it was him she was counselling; I ended up with slight suicidal tendencies and a small addiction to pethidine. I don't think she bought it.

   Then Adam and Jay found us out…caught us kissing in the locker room. I swear the door was locked. And they walked in on Jeff trying to swallow my tongue. Not really the best way to inform your respective best friends that you were in love with your own flesh and blood.

   And me, of course. I'm not perfect…a hell of a long way away from it. Before NY…I had a history. Not proud of it. Of course, no one outside my family knew. The family secret, and all.

   I cut myself. Regularly, back when I was Surge the Destroyer. Dating back to High Voltage. Grim Reaper. All those indy characters no one gave a damn about. Razor blade, glass, anything. I even tried a soft drink can one time when I was desperate. Didn't bother sterilizing, figured I could die from any one of the cuts so why bother? Then one got infected.

   I could barely walk, it hurt so bad. All icky and weeping…Dad finally asked me what was wrong once I came home and the entire back of one pants leg was stained an icky yellow colour instead of white. Got taken to a doctor, doc saw too much, recommended anti-depressants…oh yeah, and my brother had to shave me. I swear, I would have stopped the cutting if only I had known how humiliating it was to get your younger brother (who had been shaving for like a month) to cut your beard. 

   I also think I bled more during that period than the entire mess of my late adolescence.

   That's probably where all these annoyingly protective and loving feelings came from. Jeff was always so apologetic, always so careful. Always looked so scared that he would do something wrong.

   I smile at him now. We're just lying on the bed, grinning at one another stupidly. He's tracing my face and I'm teasing his little pouchy belly. And we meet again in a sweet kiss.

   "Merry Christmas,' he whispers.

   I smile again, softer, sadder. "Merry Christmas, Jeff."

   Merry f'ing Christmas indeed.


End file.
